


What You Mean To Me

by the_sky_is_forever



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Asexual Character, Asexuality, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Internalised Acephobia, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Pining Enjolras, Self-Doubt, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 08:18:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9170437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_sky_is_forever/pseuds/the_sky_is_forever
Summary: “See, the thing is, Grantaire… I’ve fallen in love with you,” Enjolras says.Grantaire goes still, smile dropping a little. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?” he asks. His eyes are searching Enjolras’ face.Enjolras almost manages a smile. “I’ve fallen in love with you. I’m in love with you.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> it's been about two months since i last posted anything :/  
> im not the proudest of this but i wanted to write it. im going through some stuff similar to enj in this fic so yeah.

It’s just a crush. He’s sure of it. And even if it’s not, there are _rules_. Friends don’t date friends. Friends especially don’t date friends that are exes of _other_ friends. It’s just not done. There are rules. And even ignoring that rule, people like _him_ don’t get to date people like Grantaire. People like him don’t get to date. It’s selfish, and Enjolras tries desperately not to be selfish.

But even so… Watching Grantaire braid Marius and Cosette’s little girl’s hair, Enjolras feels himself on the verge of yelling about how in love with Grantaire he is- No. It’s just a crush. He’s not in love. He doesn’t fall in love. He can’t. Because he can’t give Grantaire everything, and Grantaire _deserves_ everything.

It’s okay to watch though, right? He can have that at least. He can’t go home with Grantaire, can’t have his own hair braided by Grantaire, can’t cook for Grantaire, tell stories just for Grantaire’s ears on their sofa in the middle of the night, can’t curl up under a blanket to watch films with Grantaire, but he can watch him and long for him, right? That’s allowed?

He watches Grantaire laugh at something Joly said and then smile down at the girl standing in front of him to explain the joke. When he ties the braid off with a bobble, he gives her a kiss on the top of her head and digs out a couple of euros from his pocket so she can go buy herself a drink. She grins at him and Enjolras hears her voice thank Grantaire, calling him “Uncle Aire”.

As Grantaire turns from watching the girl make her way over to the bar, he catches Enjolras’ eye, and Enjolras feels himself flush, looking back down at his laptop and hastily opening a random tab. When Enjolras next looks up, daring to look Grantaire’s way again, Grantaire has gone back to talking to their friends, loud and happy in a way that he never used to be.

He’s loved seeing Grantaire change over the past few years. It’s been a privilege to be alongside him as a friend as he began to get help with everything he was struggling. Enjolras hasn’t told anyone, not even Grantaire, but it actually inspired him to go see a doctor about his anxiety. One day Enjolras will thank Grantaire for that. He hasn’t quite worked up the courage to admit to his anxiety yet though, despite his therapist’s support and encouragement.

He forces himself to focus back on his laptop screen, reading the email from Lamarque for the third time, making himself understand the words this time. It doesn’t work. His mind is all over the place. He needs a break, and it doesn’t look like he can force himself to gloss over this need tonight. He shuts the laptop and slides it into his satchel, pulling it onto his shoulder and moving over to where the rest of his friends are.

There’s an empty chair at the table where Combeferre and Bahorel are sitting, intense expressions on their faces, clearly invested in the conversation they’re having. Enjolras feels like he’d be unwelcome there, so instead insists on being brave and puts his bag down next to the empty chair at Grantaire’s table. To Grantaire’s left, actually. “Do you mind if I…?” he asks.

Grantaire beams up at him, and Enjolras feels tight inside. Screwed up. “Of course not! Join us!” he proclaims, and Enjolras quickly takes a seat.

The night passes quickly, though perhaps that’s because Enjolras leaves early, about the same time parents Cosette and Marius do, begging tiredness and a headache. A few of his friends try to convince him to stay, but Enjolras insists on leaving. Jehan is particularly insistent that he stay for another drink, but Grantaire is quick to remind them all that Enjolras doesn’t have the time for socialising when there’s a world to be saved.

Grantaire’s words sting, but Enjolras makes himself stay quiet, not wanting to fight, and he waves goodbye to his friends, feeling twisted up inside with anxiety that they’ll hate him for leaving, but he knows they don’t really want him to stay either. He’s no fun, and he knows that. He never really learnt how to have fun. There’s too much else to do. He has to do better, has to succeed.

He hates that Grantaire sees him that way. He doesn’t want to be that way.

He goes home alone and climbs into bed alone, sheets cold and crisp. He sets his alarm and turns off the light. It’s only early, and he feels like he should be doing something productive, but he’s so very tired. The awful mix of a dying need to sleep and the urge to be doing something leaves him very unsatisfied.

He texts Combeferre, telling him that he has something he wants to talk about. Combeferre replies asking when, and Enjolras, knowing he won’t be able to sleep, asks if he could come over now. There was very little chance Combeferre would say no, and it’s not long before the two of them are sipping hot chocolate at the table in Enjolras’ kitchen-diner.

“Remember back in uni? When I had those series of… anxiety attacks?” Enjolras starts, quietly. He doesn’t wait for Combeferre to confirm, he knows there’s no way Combeferre would forget that. “I told you that I got over it, and that… it was a phase. A result of the high work load. That after uni it got better.” He takes a deep breath and finds that, after twenty years of friendship, he can’t meet Combeferre’s eyes. “I lied,” he admits at last. “I lied. It didn’t get better. It hasn’t. Not at all.”

Combeferre reaches across the table and takes his hand. “It’s okay,” he says, smoothly. “It’s okay. Thank you for telling me. What can I do to help?”

Enjolras shrugs and shakes his head weakly. “I… I’m on medication and I’m seeing a therapist, and he kept encouraging me to tell my friends but I couldn’t. I was too… well, _anxious_ to. But I couldn’t sleep, and I couldn’t stop thinking of what you all think of me, and I’m so tired, Combeferre. I’m so tired.”

Combeferre gets up and makes his way round the table, pulling Enjolras into a hug. “We love you. We all love you.” He squeezes Enjolras tight. “Let’s go get into bed, and we can talk more. You can get some sleep if you can.”

Enjolras nods and lets Combeferre shepherd him into his bed. They curl up under the covers together and Enjolras buries his face in Combeferre’s chest while his best friend strokes his hair comfortingly.

One more confession in the surreality of his apartment tonight. “I think I’m in love with Grantaire,” he says.

“What makes you say that?” Combeferre asks.

Enjolras sighs. “Because I am in love with him, but I wanted to say something less committed.”

Combeferre huffs a laugh above him. “What are you going to do about it?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Enjolras says. “I just wanted to say it to _someone_.”

“Why won’t you do anything?” Combeferre asks.

“Because,” Enjolras says, “he doesn’t feel the same way, and even if he did, he deserves better than me. _And_ he’s your ex. I know you’re just friends now but… Still.”

“Better than you?” Combeferre asks, sounding a little incredulous, completely skipping over Enjolras’ point about exes. “Who could be better than you?”

Enjolras curls tighter in on Combeferre, forehead pressing against his chest. “I can’t give him… everything. You know that. I can’t give him the things he wants and needs in a relationship. You’ve heard him talking, you know what he’s looking for. I’m not enough, and we all know it.”

Combeferre lets out a disbelieving laugh. “What do you mean ‘we all know it’?” he asks.

“I don’t just mean the sex thing, I mean… I’m not fun. I’m boring, and I work too much, and I’m nothing like him,” Enjolras explains.

Combeferre breathes in deeply, letting it out in a rush. “Okay… Before we get to _that_ , I think we should talk about this serious case of internalised acephobia you’ve got going on right now. What happened to the Enjolras I used to know? Who was proud as hell of his asexuality? Who _knew_ that _love and sex are not the same thing_.”

“I grew up,” Enjolras says, dully. “I realised how selfish I am. Figured out that adults expect certain things in a relationship and if I’m not willing to do them I should just… not date.”

Combeferre sighs and pushes at Enjolras, getting them both in a sitting position, facing each other on the bed, cross-legged. “You are _wrong_ ,” he tells Enjolras, firmly. He keeps looking at Enjolras’ face, even while Enjolras won’t meet his eyes. “Are you listening to me? You are _wrong_. Love and sex are not the same thing and both can exist without the other. You are worthy of love without sex. Sex is not a requirement for love. If the person you love can’t see that, then they are not worthy of your affection. And if you think Grantaire would demand sex of you, you don’t know him as well as you think you do.”

“No,” Enjolras says, quickly. “He would never demand it, would never force me to, wouldn’t even expect me to, but he likes sex, loves sex, even. To ask him to… give that experience up… I can’t ask him to do that. I can’t ask him to stop having that connection and that outlet and that _enjoyment_. It’s unfair to force someone into a life of celibacy. I’m supposed to love him and all I could do for him is restrict him.”

“You should talk to Grantaire about this,” Combeferre says, and keeps talking, over Enjolras’ attempted refusal, “he’s the only one who knows how he feels about sex and you. You don’t know that he would hold sex in a higher regard than a relationship with you. In fact, I highly doubt that he would.”

“Don’t do that,” Enjolras says, face falling. “I don’t want hope. There’s nothing worse.”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre says, softly.

“That’s not what I meant,” Enjolras says. “Hope about this. There’s nothing worse than hope about _this_.”

“You don’t know how he feels,” Combeferre says.

“Neither do you,” Enjolras says. He flops down onto the bed. “Let’s not talk about this anymore. It’s not worth it.”

Combeferre lies back down with him. “Okay,” he says.

“Can we just go to sleep?”

Combeferre runs a hand over Enjolras’ hair, smoothing it down comfortingly. “Of course.” He kisses Enjolras’ hair. He’s quiet for a few moments. “If you ever change your mind… Don’t let the fact that he and I dated change anything. I want the both of you to be happy.”

 

When Enjolras gets up the next day, he’s still determined to never say anything to Grantaire. He sticks with this plan as he gets dressed and as he eats breakfast and as he sets off to work.

As he’s cycling through the park, however, he hears a familiar laugh and turns his head automatically in the direction of the sound of Grantaire’s happiness. Three of his friends are lying in the grass not far from the path, passing what looks like a cigarette between them.

Enjolras slips off his bike, pulling his blazer straight and pushing it over to them, knowing he’s got a little time before work. As he gets a little closer, it becomes apparent that his friends are high as kites, and Enjolras laughs, shaking his head with mock disapproval. “It’s not even ten on a Wednesday, guys,” he says to announce his arrival.

The three of them sit upright and three faces split into grins. “Enjolras!” Musichetta cries in delight.

“Hi,” he says.

“Cute bike,” Grantaire says.

“Thanks,” Enjolras says. “Nice daisy crown,” he returns, nodding towards Grantaire’s hair.

“Thank you!” Grantaire says, sounding genuinely thrilled by the compliment.

Enjolras shakes his head, bemused. “I should get to work,” he says. “You guys going to be okay?”

Courfeyrac points up at the clouds and says, “We’re good.”

Enjolras glances up, unsure if there’s something he’s missing, and then sighs. “I’ll leave you to it.” He starts to push his bike back to the path and blushes when one of his friends wolf-whistles, looking back to catch who it was to tell them off.

“I hate for you to leave, but I love to watch you go,” Grantaire yells after him.

“Nice ass!” Musichetta adds, as if Enjolras didn’t understand Grantaire’s meaning.

“Don’t harass strangers!” Enjolras yells back at them.

Courfeyrac says, a little quieter than them, “I thought we knew that guy. Is that not Enjolras?”

“I am Enjolras!” Enjolras shouts over. “I meant _other_ people who are strangers. Don’t harass them. Drugs are no excuse!”

He laughs when all three friends salute him at the same time before quickly hopping onto his bike and riding off, knowing he’ll be cutting it close to work.

 

Grantaire’s compliment, crude though it was, sticks in Enjolras’ mind all day. It’s always this way; any sort of attention from Grantaire results in Enjolras obsessing over it.

It’s so tiring, having a crush. Overanalysing everything Grantaire does is exhausting because he just can’t stop doing it. Even later, when he’s having a conversation with Courfeyrac and Bahorel over dinner, part of him is still thinking about Grantaire, lying on the grass, grinning happily up at him. It makes Enjolras feel warm inside.

He knows this isn’t going to simply go away like he wants it to. It’s apparent that these feelings are here to stay, as Enjolras doesn’t get short crushes. He gets a crush on someone and then he’s in for the long haul.

It’s all so pointless.

He ends up lying on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling.

He stays there until morning arrives, finally goes to sleep where he is for a few hours, and when he wakes up he comes to a decision.

 

Enjolras tugs on his skirt, pulling it straight, and runs a hand through his hair in a last-ditch attempt to neaten it. He takes another deep breath and knocks on the door, three sharp raps.

The door swings open immediately, catching Enjolras by surprise. Grantaire, too, apparently. “Oh! Enjolras! I was just on my way out. Courfeyrac’s out, but Combeferre’s in the kitchen,” he adds, moving aside to let Enjolras in.

Enjolras laughs, softly. “Um, no, I- I actually wanted to talk to you.”

“Me?” Grantaire asks, surprise colouring his voice.

“Yeah, I- I was thinking we could get lunch together?” Enjolras blurts out, knowing that Grantaire is in a rush, and not wanting to keep him from anything more important. “Tomorrow, if you’re too busy today?”

Grantaire looks at his phone. “I can do today,” he says. “Is half one too late?”

“No! No, that’s great,” Enjolras says, beaming. “Cause the thing is-”

“Can you tell me at lunch? It’s just I’ve got a thing to get to, and if you want to meet for lunch at a lunch-appropriate time…” Grantaire says, giving him a guilty smile. “If it’s about the posters, I’m on it, I swear. I can actually print off some drafts today if you want? I’ll talk to you later, okay?” he says, already starting to rush off, coat folded over his arm, phone clutched tightly in his hand. He starts rooting in his shoulder bag for something. “Text me where you want to meet! I’ll see you later.”

Enjolras breathes out sharply. “Okay,” he calls after Grantaire before lowering his voice as Grantaire disappears out onto the street. “All right. Guess… I’ve got a few more hours to panic about this. Okay, good.” He breathes in as deep as he can and runs his hand through his hair, feeling a bit flustered by the encounter.

Since Grantaire left the flat door open, and Combeferre is in, Enjolras heads inside. “Knock, knock,” he calls.

“Kitchen!” Combeferre yells back.

Smiling, Enjolras heads through to the delicious smelling room. “What are you making?” he asks, grinning at the quite harried looking Combeferre.

“I owe Bahorel a cake,” Combeferre says, rolling his eyes.

“Why?” Enjolras asks.

“I accidentally made him drop a cake he just bought,” Combeferre explains. “Even with his low standards, it was not edible.”

“So… why aren’t you just buying him a new one?” Enjolras asks.

Combeferre shrugs, somewhat defeated. “I didn’t have any money on me, and I honestly thought this would be less time consuming.”

Enjolras laughs. “Well, it smells great,” he tells Combeferre, honestly.

“Thanks,” Combeferre says, with a wry grin. “Anyway, I guess you didn’t just come here to talk baking, what’s up?”

“Oh, uh, I actually came to… speak to Grantaire. We crossed paths at the door, but he seemed in a rush,” Enjolras says.

Combeferre’s eyes seem to bore into him, and Enjolras looks down when Combeferre asks, “What did you want to speak to R about?” his voice gone serious.

Enjolras pauses. He can’t meet Combeferre’s eyes. He knows Combeferre knows, but this is his best friend, and if Combeferre doesn’t think he should do it, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. “I’m gonna tell him,” Enjolras says.

“Okay,” Combeferre says, and Enjolras finally looks up at him.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Combeferre says. “Okay.”

Enjolras notices he’s been pulling at his skirt again, and he forces himself to stop, making his hands into fists. “You don’t think it’s stupid?”

Combeferre takes a look at his cake in the oven and quickly sets a timer. “Come here,” he says, taking Enjolras’ elbow and gently moving him towards the dining table. They sit down next to each other, Combeferre’s body facing Enjolras. “Here’s what I think. You need to do this for _you_. I can’t tell you how he’s going to react, but I know that even if what happens hurts you, in the end, you have to know. There’s a point in every crush where you just… have to know. Whether it’s the answer you want or not, continuing without knowing is just worse.”

Enjolras nods, weakly.

“I just want to say,” Combeferre continues, “he might not expect it. In fact, I very much doubt he’ll have any idea at all of your feelings towards him whether he returns them or not. Just know that it’s a lot to put on someone unexpectedly. Don’t take his silence or shock as a bad thing immediately, okay? Give him chance to think.”

Enjolras nods, more surely now. “Of course!” he says.

“Okay, good,” Combeferre says, giving him a smile. “So, when are you telling him?”

“We’re having lunch together at half one,” Enjolras says.

“Okay,” Combeferre says. “Wanna pass the time by helping me finish off this cake?”

Enjolras laughs. “Sure,” he says.

“You look really nice, by the way,” Combeferre says, casually, and Enjolras blushes, pulling at his cardigan nervously. He sways a little, in his embarrassment, and the hem of his skirt swishes around his calves.

“I thought I’d make a bit more of an effort. For him,” Enjolras says. “He probably won’t even notice,” he adds, but he says it good-naturedly, with a fond smile.

Combeferre laughs. “He’ll notice,” Combeferre says.

They chat easily about work and films and shows they’re watching at the moment, getting particularly excited about _The Get Down_ as they put icing on the cake and the clock rolls towards one o’clock. Enjolras, having kicked off his shoes to be more comfortable, sits down to put them back on, sending Grantaire a quick text suggesting the Musain as a meeting place for lunch. He says goodbye to Combeferre, kissing him on the cheek quickly.

“Good luck,” Combeferre says. “Let me know how it goes.”

It’s sunny out on the street, plenty of tourists milling around with their cameras and iPads, taking photos of buildings and people posing on benches and by fountains. It’s a lovely day, and Enjolras walks amongst it, finding peace and a lack of anxiety about what he’s about to do.

Of course, as soon as he sits down in the Musain, he has nothing else to think about. He can’t take his eyes off the door, knowing Grantaire is on his way here right now, and then Enjolras will tell him. He will. He’s not backing out of this, no matter how much the idea of telling him is making him want to curl up under the table and never come out again.

Grantaire is three minutes late, and even that short length of time has Enjolras worrying he’s not going to show. He does, of course, and Enjolras forgets to smile for slightly too long in his relief that Grantaire came. “Hello,” he says, and _then_ smiles, and he already knows he’s going to beat himself up for that one later.

Grantaire looks amazing in his shirt and bowtie, having foregone a jacket or blazer. Enjolras wants to kiss him for looking so beautiful.

Grantaire smiles back at him, completely unaware of Enjolras’ turmoil. “Hi, Enj,” he says. “Have you ordered? I was thinking about having more than a sandwich if you were. I’m starving.”

“Oh, no, I haven’t ordered,” Enjolras says. “I think I’ll just get a sandwich, but don’t let me stop you from eating.”

Grantaire smiles at him over the menu. “I won’t,” he says.

Enjolras suddenly gets hit with the realisation that if they order food, he can’t tell Grantaire until after they’ve eaten, just in case. So it’s now or never. “Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and then immediately runs out of steam.

Grantaire looks up at him again. “Hmm?” he asks. He glances down at his menu. “I’m thinking risotto.”

“Right,” Enjolras says. “Sure, that’s good here.” He licks his lips. “R, we’ve known each other for a while now, right?”

Grantaire smiles, a bit bemused. “I guess? It’s been, what? Three years?”

“About that, yeah,” Enjolras says, smiling. “I guess that’s not that long, actually. Not compared to other people that I’ve… known. Um. Okay, well, three years. That’s not an inconsiderable length of time.”

Grantaire laughs a little. “I don’t think so, no. What’s your point?” he asks, not unkindly, genuinely not seeing where Enjolras is leading them.

Enjolras opens his mouth to continue, and then pauses. He closes his mouth, frowning down at the table for a second. He’s playing with the fabric of his skirt under the table, so forces himself to rest his hands on the table. He takes a breath.

“See, the thing is, Grantaire… I’ve fallen in love with you,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire goes still, smile dropping a little. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?” he asks. His eyes are searching Enjolras’ face.

Enjolras almost manages a smile. “I’ve fallen in love with you. I’m in love with you.”

Enjolras can see the confusion cross Grantaire’ face, and Grantaire glances around. “Is this… a joke?” he asks. There’s a smile on Grantaire’ face, one that looks to be there only because Grantaire doesn’t know what else to do. “Some sort of prank? Because I don’t get it, if it is,” he says, slowly. His smile slips into a confused frown.

Enjolras ducks his head for a second, and when he looks up, he swallows and shakes his head. “It’s… It’s not a joke,” he says.

Grantaire keeps trying to say something, half-formed words making it out and dying before they’re fully formed. “I- Uh- Right. Um. Okay.” He finally lapses into silence, alternating between staring at the table and looking up at Enjolras’ face, searching for something in his expression.

Enjolras just watches him. He feels almost, resigned. He’s done his part.

“Oh, Enj,” Grantaire says at last.

Enjolras tries to play it casual a little, even though he knows Grantaire can see how heart-breakingly honest he’s being right now. “It’s okay,” he says, and feels so proud of himself when his voice doesn’t break.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire says. “I just… Um… I, I’m sorry I don’t know what to say,” Grantaire admits, with something of a light hysterical laugh attached. “I’m flattered, truly, Enjolras, but I don’t… Yeah, I’m sorry.”

Enjolras makes himself smile. “No, it’s fine. That’s… more or less what I expected anyway. It’s fine.” He looks down at his hands. “I’m gonna go,” he decides. “I’m sorry I-” he breaks off, getting to his feet. “Sorry for ruining lunch,” he settles for, even if it’s not what he meant to say. He grabs his jacket.

“Oh, Enj,” Grantaire says. “Please don’t go,” he begs, getting to his feet as well.

Enjolras shakes his head. “I think it’s better if I do,” he tells Grantaire. He takes a deep breath and draws himself upright, ignoring the pity in Grantaire’ eyes. He smooths down his skirt again, suddenly so self-conscious he can hardly breathe. He knows he’s being absurd but all of his flaws have never felt so visible.

He holds out a hand for Grantaire to shake. “Seriously, don’t worry about it,” he says.

Grantaire sighs, but takes his hand. He’s kind enough to squeeze it gently and not mention that Enjolras’ hands are visibly shaking.

“I’ll see you around,” Enjolras says, and he’d try for another smile, but he knows it won’t quite make it, and he can’t stand for Grantaire to feel any sorrier for him. He turns and leaves before Grantaire can say anything else.

Once he’s out on the street, he feels the first tear roll down his cheek, and he’s only grateful that he didn’t start crying in front of Grantaire. But now he’s started, he can’t seem to stop, and the tears just keep coming, and he hates it, hates how ugly he is when he cries, hates that he can’t just control his emotions like everyone else can, hates that he can’t handle a very kind rejection.

“Shit,” he says, probably too loudly, but it’s all he can think of to do to get hold of himself. People are glancing at him as they pass him by and he wants to scream. Have they never seen a grown-ass person cry on the street before?

He pulls out his phone and shoots a quick text to Combeferre to let him know it didn’t go well but that Grantaire, as ever, was lovely. He then texts Feuilly to see if he’s in before heading over.

As soon as he gets the affirmative, he heads over. He lets himself in and lies down on Feuilly’s living room floor, since Feuilly is lying on the sofa, blatantly high. The smell of weed fills the room though there isn’t a sign of even a single joint and Enjolras breathes in deeply.

Enjolras says, “I don’t want to drink, because it’s the middle of the day and I won’t go down that road and I barely even _like_ drinking, but _fuck_ , Feuilly.”

Feuilly looks worried. “What happened?”

“I told Grantaire that I’m in love with him,” Enjolras explains.

“Wow,” Feuilly says, visibly shocked. “Go you!”

“Yeah,” Enjolras says. “He was surprised, to say the least.” He sighs. “It’s fine, it’s not like I expected him to have been harbouring a great secret love for me all along. We’re friends and it’s taken enough work to get us there. It’s fine. He was nice about it all.” He pauses. “Shit, I haven’t had lunch.”

Feuilly rolls his head in Enjolras’ direction and Enjolras looks up at him from his place on the floor. “I don’t have much food, but the pizza place is literally next door so it’s super quick. The number’s on the fridge.”

Enjolras heaves himself to his feet and gives the number a ring to order a large vegetarian pizza with garlic dip. He goes back to Feuilly, making him budge up on the sofa. “Can we watch Brooklyn Nine-Nine?”

“Sure,” Feuilly says, queueing up Netflix without a single complaint.

“Thanks,” Enjolras says, and then neither of them talk for a while, just sitting watching episode after episode. When the pizza arrives it doesn’t break the silence. There’s just eating and watching for a bit.

After six episodes, Feuilly says quietly, “I’m really proud of you.”

Enjolras doesn’t reply, but he curls up closer to Feuilly, and they watch another few episodes cuddling. 

In the silence, Feuilly tugs the bobble gently out of Enjolras’ hair, untangling it methodically and carefully. Enjolras’ body relaxes into him as Feuilly plays with his hair. “Want me to brush it?” Feuilly asks, softly.

Nodding, Enjolras makes some room for Feuilly to get up and fetch a brush. Enjolras grabs a cushion and slides down onto the floor, Feuilly’s legs bracketing him. It’s soothing and Enjolras can feel the overwhelming anxiety of the day slipping away from him. “Thanks,” he says, quietly enough that he doesn’t encourage conversation or interrupt the show.

They continue on that way for a while, till Enjolras says, “He said he was flattered, but that he doesn’t think of me that way.” He sighs. “Which is fine. That’s… totally fine. That’s him, that’s okay. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck.”

Enjolras sighs again and pulls himself up onto the sofa. Feuilly kisses his temple. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” he says.

Enjolras shrugs. “It’s not like I really thought he could be in love with me,” he says.

“There was always a chance,” Feuilly says.

They’re interrupted by a knock on the door, and Feuilly kisses Enjolras on the head before getting up to answer it. Enjolras curls up on the couch and pulls the blanket down from the back of the couch over him. He buries his face in the soft fabric and waits for the Earth to swallow him whole so he can just stop feeling.

“Um, Enjolras?” Feuilly’s voice says, clearly back in the room. “Grantaire’s here. He wants to talk to you.”

Enjolras peeks out from under the blanket and looks up at Grantaire.

“Hi,” Grantaire says. “Oh, hey, no. Don’t do that,” he says, pulling at the blanket that Enjolras just hid himself back under. “Look, you surprised me, that’s all. I didn’t expect that.”

Enjolras laughs, a little self-mockingly, forcing himself to get into a sitting position, keeping the blanket wrapped around himself comfortingly.

Grantaire sits down next to him and wraps an arm around him, pulling him into a hug. “Come on, this isn’t like you,” he says, giving Enjolras a squeeze. “Listen, you shocked me. I didn’t know what to say. The truth is, I used to have a massive crush on you. Used to be half in love with you, to tell the truth, and I never expected you to say all that when we met up for lunch, since I’ve got pretty used to the two of us being friends.”

“When?” Enjolras asks. “When did you have a crush on me?”

“Back when we first met? Pretty much from the moment I laid eyes on you, and then I made myself get it together after about… a year? Roughly a year later I moved on,” Grantaire explains.

“Right,” Enjolras says, voice flat. “When you got to know me.”

“Enj,” Grantaire says, sounding a little upset.

“No, I’m sorry. That was unfair to say. I’m having a little crisis of confidence,” Enjolras says, shaking his head at himself pitifully.

“Anxiety?” Grantaire asks, no messing around, no sugar coating. Enjolras doesn’t know how he knows about that, since the only people he’s told are Combeferre and his therapist.

Enjolras nods. “Yeah, and some internalised acephobia I seem to have picked up along the way.”

Grantaire squeezes him, pulling a sympathetic face. “That’s rough. Sorry about that.”

Enjolras shrugs. “That’s life,” he sighs. He pulls himself away from Grantaire. “I’m sorry for springing my emotions on you.”

Grantaire laughs. “Enjolras, it’s not ‘springing your emotions’ on someone when you’re asking them out. That’s a completely valid thing to do. And anyway, I never got to my point of why I came here. Like I said, I used to like you an awful lot, and the truth is, I still could, and I would like it very much if we… gave it a go.”

Enjolras wants to hide under the blanket again. “You don’t like me though.”

“I have feelings for you that can’t be fully explained as platonic,” Grantaire says. “And most people start dating someone they’re not in love with. It’s how relationships work. You spot the potential, and then you give it a go.”

Enjolras nods, slowly. “All right,” he says, carefully. He smiles hesitantly. “We have potential?”

Grantaire grins at him. “Hell yeah, we do,” he says.

“Okay,” Enjolras says. He grins back at Grantaire. “Good. Great. So… You want to go out on a date with me sometime?”

Grantaire laughs. “That sounds good to me. Maybe we could try again tonight?”

“Yes,” Enjolras agrees eagerly.

“Great,” Grantaire says. “I’m going to go home and put on something a little more appropriate. Clean up.”

Enjolras blushes and mumbles, “I like the bowtie.”

“What?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras clears his throat and shrugs. “I like the bowtie,” he repeats, louder.

Grantaire’s face flushes and Enjolras grins. He simply has to hug him after that. Enjolras buries his face in Grantaire’s neck, squeezing him tight. “Thank you,” Enjolras breathes.

“For what?” Grantaire asks, his voice a little muffled from where his mouth is pressed against Enjolras’ head.

Enjolras shrugs. “Being so nice,” he says.

Grantaire laughs. “You’re welcome.” He kisses Enjolras’ check.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! dont hesitate to let me know what you thought! :)  
> you can also find me at nerds-are-cool on tumblr, my writing blog is theskyis-forever
> 
> grantaire in this is.....not like the grantaire we're used to in exr fics but.....i wanted to write it so  
> let's talk about it if you want
> 
> if you enjoyed this: [buy me a coffee?](http://ko-fi.com/A831F9U)


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